


We Learn To Live With The Pain, Mosaic Broken Hearts

by iliveinfantasies



Series: The Worst Witch 2018 Winter Fluff Event [5]
Category: The Worst Witch (TV 2017), The Worst Witch - All Media Types
Genre: Baking, F/F, Gen, Hicsqueak, Other, why am i an angst baby, ww2018winterfluffevent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-13 05:20:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16886379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iliveinfantasies/pseuds/iliveinfantasies
Summary: To Pippa, Christmas smelled like primrose.Not the rich, steamy tones of eggnog, or the sweet, spicy notes of cinnamon; but primrose, and jasmine, and the sharp, damp mustiness of ice crystals turning in frozen earth.Hecate had let slip to Pippa once, in a croaked half-whisper, that her family wasn’t much for holidays.That her father found the task of celebrating Christmas arduous and frivolous; that the time Hecate stayed at home during the Christmas season was spent studying, and practicing, and locked into dark closets on the heels of accidental misbehavior.As such, Hecate was not overly-fond of the holiday season, and often got just a bit overwhelmed with the lights and the laughter and the increasing crowds of people. She’d tuck into herself, shuddering when she thought Pippa didn’t notice, and Pippa would casually grab her hand and lead them both outside with a light, “let’s go for a walk!”------------Day 5 Prompt: BakingPairing: HicsqueakI swear that baking does actually come up in this, though it's a bit loosely tied to the prompt. Sorry!





	We Learn To Live With The Pain, Mosaic Broken Hearts

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still a day behind. I might stay a day behind until the free day/catch up day, and I'm just accepting that.
> 
> Btw Avalance shippers, I haven't forgotten about you, don't worry!
> 
> Since it's me, this of course also has angst in it. But it gets REALLY soft at the end.
> 
> Hope you all enjoy it!
> 
> Visit me on Tumblr at iliveinfantasylife

To Pippa, Christmas smelled like primrose.

Not the rich, steamy tones of eggnog, or the sweet, spicy notes of cinnamon; but primrose, and jasmine, and the sharp, damp mustiness of ice crystals turning in frozen earth.

Hecate had let slip to Pippa once, in a croaked half-whisper, that her family wasn’t much for holidays.

That her father found the task of celebrating Christmas arduous and frivolous; that the time Hecate stayed at home during the Christmas season was spent studying, and practicing, and locked into dark closets on the heels of accidental misbehavior.

As such, Hecate was not overly-fond of the holiday season, and often got just a bit overwhelmed with the lights and the laughter and the increasing crowds of people. She’d tuck into herself, shuddering when she thought Pippa didn’t notice, and Pippa would casually grab her hand and lead them both outside with a light, “let’s go for a walk!”

They’d spent hour after hour, more days than not, tucked into one of the perennial gardens in Amulet’s vast courtyard, pinching and pruning filching potions ingredients for Hecate’s experiments; the cold vast, and pressing, air settling like ice into their chests.

Pippa’s favorites had been the primrose.

Tiny spots of color, of pinks and yellows and reds, pressing their petals stubbornly through frost, between cracks in the ice. Very like Hecate, herself, though Pippa would never say so.

Hecate had always frowned. “Why the primrose?” she’d asked, confusion overtaking her face. “I understand something like the jasmine, its flowers are often used in--”

But Pippa would cut her off with a small sigh and a quick shake of the head.

“Because they’re pretty, Hiccup,” she’d say, and Hecate’s frown would deepen, her eyes working, turning over Pippa’s answer in her mind until Pippa could sense the frustration settling on her skin.

“But they serve no _purpose_ ,” she’d say, pressing the words out through her lips, confusion etching their edges.

And Pippa would breathe out, a half-smile forming on her lips, and say, “That _is_ their purpose, Hiccup.”

* * *

 

To Hecate, Christmas smelled like nutmeg and cracked black pepper.

Like the burnt-sugar smell of singed pastries, rich and dark and just a little acrid.

Like every December 1st during their time at Amulet’s, when Pippa would shake Hecate roughly awake with stiff, icy fingers, and hiss “ _Come on, Hiccup!”_ to the blackened still air. Hecate wouldn’t even get the chance to protest before Pippa had them both out of bed, nightgowns whipping around their shins, sparks of excitement shimmering and crackling around her fingertips in their haste. She’d weave them through the cold, darkened hallways, Hecate’s hand tucked into her own, before pressing themselves silently through the heavy wooden door of the kitchens. There, Pippa would turn to Hecate, eyes wide and fierce and glittering, and half-whisper, “It’s _Christmas!_ ”

Hecate would sigh, blinking at Pippa sidelong, eyelids heavy and weighted and still a bit stuck in sleep. “Pipsqueak,” she’d say, soft and low. “It’s December 1st. Christmas is not for another--”

But Pippa would wave her off, tsking, grinning, bouncing a little on her heels, and start summoning all the proper ingredients needed to make spiced biscuits.

Pippa had never been the best at summoning, and thick clumps of flour, whole entire plants of ginger root, would fall to the ground as she tugged the ingredients by their magical threads.

Hecate would plant herself in a shadowed corner watching Pippa work; she’d add too much nutmeg, every time, and they always ended up just a little bit too crisp around the edges. But the meticulous way in which Pippa went about her task, eyes focused and bright, cheeks just a little flushed, teeth tugging at her bottom lip, made Hecate watch in revered awe from her spot in the shadows.

The way Pippa rolled out the dough to exactly six milimetres, sprinkled the tops of each with cinnamon sugar and nutmeg and fresh, cracked black pepper ( _to balance the flavors, Hiccup!)_ was nothing short of magic itself; a bold, bright energy that Pippa emanated in waves when she was happy.

Pippa would see her staring, and wrinkle her nose, using a floury hand to press her hair out of her face while she worked.

“What?” she’d ask, her eyes slipping into a sort of shy self-consciousness, fingers still working the dough.

And Hecate would shake her head, lightly.

_You’re beautiful you’re beautiful you’re beautiful you’re--_

“You have a bit of flour, on your nose. Just here.”

Then, she’d gesture to a vague spot on her own face, and Pippa would laugh, tinkling and vibrant, and attempt to wipe a spot of flour that wasn’t there with her sugar-coated fingers.

“Thanks, Hiccup,” she’s say, and slip back into her work.

The whole thing had been reckless, and wild, and Hecate would never have ever admitted that she enjoyed being a part of something so intensely against the rules--so unrestrained and free and fully, unabashedly Pippa. So _theirs._

So that first Christmas without Pippa, she’d promptly avoided any and all bakeries. Kept herself out of shops, and parties, and halls, and allowed herself to fall further, further, into the cold, slicing grip of Miss Broomhead.

But despite her best efforts, the season remained the same; phantom smells of a phantom life, just out of her grasp; nutmeg and black pepper, and the sharp, subtle taste of loss, burnt and bitter on her tongue.

* * *

 

Thirty years after the gardens, the fresh snow sticking heavily to their hair, the subtle sweet scent of primrose; thirty years of longing and wishing and heartache and pure, unfiltered anger; days and weeks of unspoken apologies hidden behind eyelids and childhood nicknames that felt thick and out of practice on their tongues, Pippa and Hecate slipped into a sort of regularity once again. Thursday chess, every week, and mirror chats that happened with increasing frequency. It felt good, and natural, and so, so _right_ to Pippa, that it almost frightened her. How Hecate had slipped so quickly back into her life, despite the years between them; like a piece fitting back into a puzzle, aged and warped with the years, that still held a space in that exact shape, ready and waiting.

It was on one of these Thursday night chess sessions, the first one of the month of December (“Of the month of _Christmas,_ Hiccup!” “Christmas isn’t a month, Pippa.”), that Pippa found herself shivering lightly in Hecate’s sitting room, waiting for her to finish a letter to a particularly nosy parent about her child’s performance.

The ride over had been brutal; ice, and wind, and the sort of cold that slipped straight through your skin into your bones. Pippa had dressed for the weather as best she could, and cast a basic warming spell on herself for the ride, but she still wasn’t quite warm, despite the flick of magic cast in her direction when she’d arrived; a quick flittering warmth from Hecate’s hands.

Pippa let out a violent shudder while setting up the chess board, nearly launching a rook onto the floor.

“Hecate, do you have a sweater I can borrow?”

“Pippa, you’re a witch,” said Hecate, not looking up from her careful stirring. “Why don’t you just cast a warming spell?”

Pippa sighed. “It’s not as _cozy,_ Hiccup. And it’s Christmas season.”

Hecate shook her head, slightly, but a small, indulgent smile pricked at the corners of her lips. “I have an extra cloak in my room, hanging on a hook by wardrobe,” she said. “Go on in, then.”

Pippa’s eyebrows rose a little in surprise, but she stood up, and pushed open the door to Hecate’s room. Despite these weekly meetings, they never wandered far beyond the sitting room. Pippa had never been into Hecate’s actual bedroom, before.

The smell hit her like a shock the moment she opened the door.

It was subtle, yes, and wouldn’t be nearly as clear to someone who didn’t have such a visceral attachment to it.

But to Pippa, it was strong, and sweet, and set something to motion in her that she’d steadfastly refused to look at for the last thirty years.

She walked over toward the bookshelf hesitantly, softly, and reached out shaking fingers to touch the light pink petals.

_Primrose. Primrose, everywhere._

Primrose, in a large black pot, sat just at eye height. Perfect pink petals, clearly tended with a careful hand, emanate a light, floral scent.

Like Christmas. Like Hecate. Like a life thirty years lost.

“Pippa?” came Hecate’s voice, almost hesitant, from the doorway. “Are you--” Hecate stopped, her face freezing in an expression of something Pippa couldn’t quite recognize.

Pippa spun, a little frantic, angry, almost. “ _Why?”_ she demanded, surprised at the desperation she found in her own voice. “Why do you--” she shook her head, cutting herself off. “You always said that they had no point,” she finished, quietly, trying to squash down the tiny spark of hope fluttering in her chest. “So why, exactly, do you have one in your room?”

Hecate’s eyes widened, almost imperceptibly, before slipping into something fleeting and frightened, Her voice filtered across the room, rough and gritty like broken custard. “It was you, Pippa. It was always you.”

* * *

 

Pippa threaded their fingers together, tugging Hecate along the darkened hallways, the black, silent corridors.

“I don't know why we don’t just transfer, Pippa,” she said calmly, though her heart was pounding wildly in her chest.

Pippa tittered at her. “It’s _fun_ , Hiccup. Just come along for the ride.”

Hecate sighed, loudly, but couldn’t help a small smile from popping up. “And why are we sneaking?” she added, raising an eyebrow as they were tugged around a particularly sharp corner. “In case your forgot, this is _your_ school, Pippa. And _you_ and _I_ are the only ones here.”

They stopped short in front of the wide metal doors of the kitchen at Pentangle’s.

“No sense of holiday spirit,” Pippa sighed, mock sadness tinting her words.

Hecate shook her head, again, but allowed herself to be dragged through the doors.

It had been a week, now.

A week since the primrose, a week since Hecate turned herself out from the inside, letting Pippa see all the pieces of herself she’d been hiding all these years.

The most important piece of herself.

A week of explanations and near tears and revelations and admittences and soft, quiet murmurs in the dark.

A week of cautious kisses and less cautious touches, of fingernails dragging along skin.

And now, careful footsteps into the kitchen.

And now, ingredients being dragged out; with a bit more grace, this time, through a sprinkle of flour still littered the floor.

And now, too much nutmeg and burnt-sugar edges and cracked black pepper.

And now, “You’re beautiful,” Hecate said, when she was caught staring.

And now “I love you’s” peppering the air, like the sweet, spicy scent of Christmas.


End file.
